Perchance to dream
by Mrs.Phineas Bogg
Summary: Who really is John Casey? His dreams of the past reveal the sad truth – This was my entry into an old ABO Crossover contest. You must use one of Adam's characters and put him into another Adam character 'world.' Let me know what you think of this 'twist.'


**Perchance to Dream**

_*This was written in response to the ABO website Adam Baldwin character-crossover competition from March 2008._

Vivid, brutal images haunted him every night. It was such a simple act of tomfoolery, but he did it and paid dearly. No two dreams were ever alike, but they always ended the same. He cradled his dying brother in his arms, praying he would live but also praying no one would discover the truth. When the dreams ended he rolled out of bed in a tangled mess of sheets and sweat, chanting –

_"Poor little guy, poor little guy…poor little guy…"_

Stumbling to his closet he flicked on the light and rummaged through his clothes. Not much inside but a bunch of pressed Government issue suits and that ugly polo shirt he hated wearing every day. He dug a little further back and grabbed for the jacket. The olive green army-style coat that he associated with high School and depression. In every year, in every school, a _Ricky Linderman _that roamed the halls, desolate and alone. He doubted that many went through what he did, but everybody suffered in their own way.

He ran his fingers across the worn fabric and zipper and sniffed it. The scent of motor oil was entrenched in the fibers. Grease, cigarette odors, dribbles of blood and dirt made a permanent home in its threads. The mud stains never came out, but he didn't care. They served as a reminder of the day his sanity returned and he beat the tar out of Mike, Moody's so-called bodyguard. He chuckled. Moody went on to become a degenerate playboy making big bucks on Wall Street. He frequently kept a sharp eye on Moody, any shady business and he vowed to pounce.

After his nightmares, having the jacket in his hands calmed him. It went that way almost every other night. At times he wanted to scream his head off, but that would have alerted his neighbors and completely ruin his image. When the visions of his dead brother faded, he sucked his fears in, dunked his head in a sink full of cold water and forced himself back to sleep. For twenty-eight years he carried this burden, but he did it stoically, suffering the shame and horror only his dreams.

He wandered into his kitchen and opened the fridge to have a swig of orange juice, then shuffled back to his bedroom. It would have tasted better with some Jack Daniels. His gaze fell upon his revolver. He kept it on the night stand in case of midnight intruders. When he accidentally shot his brother in the head, he swore to himself that he would never pick up a gun again. That promise had long been forgotten, and vowed to become an expert with them. Guns became like second nature and his current career left him with many reasons to use one. He lifted his black sheets off the floor and fluffed out his pillows. He jumped into bed. Grogginess eventually settled in and he closed his eyes once more, pushing Linderman into the recesses of his mind.

**~Oo~**

The shrill alarm attacked his ears and he popped his head up to reach for it. "7:30 am, right on target." He muttered. He made a beeline to the bathroom to relieve himself and wash up. Coming back to his closet he pulled out his uniform with loathing. "Here we go again!"

Within a few minutes he slid into his beige pants and tucked in the glaring, green shirt. Where was that stupid name tag? He found it by his computer console and pinned it to his chest with a deep groan. He doubled checked his room and took his wallet from his dresser and the hid the emergency nighttime gun. His closet was still open and he noticed the jacket crumpled on the floor. He picked it up and dusted it off and gingerly placed it on the heavy, wooden hanger. He considered putting it in plastic again, the moths were getting antsy.

"I'll see you tonight, _Ricky."_ He murmured and walked out of his apartment.

The bright, California sunshine nearly blinded him and he shielded his eyes. _"Here comes the kid, always wearing that doofy smile."_ He thought.

A sudden notion struck him and he didn't know why he never realized it before. Clifford Peache. Chuck Bartowski reminded him of Clifford. Affable but straightforward, awkward, yet adroit at what he did best. Good old Clifford. He eventually married their friend Shelly, had a few kids and took his father's place running the hotel in Chicago. Peache always had a room available when 'John Casey' needed it and a shoulder to lean on. They were still best friends. He also entrusted Peache with his most valued and precious possession, the bike he rebuilt in that tumultuous year.

"Hi ya Casey! Nice to have you carpooling with us this morning." Chuck beamed.

_"Yeah, yeah, _let's not make it a habit."

"Gotchya! Morgan's outside the gate, say, are you okay? You look a little_…peaked, _rough night, pal? Maybe a little heavy on the scotch and tuna?"

Casey grimaced. "Nothing you would know about, Bartowski." The roughest night Chuck must have had before the Intersect was losing a video game to Morgan or having his computer crash. Casey sighed, that wasn't true, Chuck and his sister Ellie had been abandoned by their parents. In a way, Casey empathized. His own mother had all but disowned him after his brother died. She always suspected it _wasn't_ a suicide. His father, who was already an older man then, eventually drank himself to death and died in front of the television back in ninety-seven.

Casey shrugged. "_Ehh,_ it's all good, my life is of no consequence, just the Intersect. Let's get outta here."

**~Oo~**

Chuck looked sympathetically at the NSA Agent as they hurried to the Nerd Herder. One of these days he wanted to tell Casey what he really _knew_. Sixteen year old high schooler Ricky Linderman, supposedly found his brother shot dead in their own home. The Intersect had went to work on John Casey the first time they met, but Chuck never revealed the secret. The sad truth was that young John Casey had accidentally murdered his little brother, and then made it look like he committed suicide. He didn't tell the NSA Agent about the nights he heard him yelling in his sleep. The dreams had occurred again while Chuck took a midnight stroll to dump the trash.

_"I didn't find him! I killed him! I shot him! I put the gun in his hand and said I found him that way!" _Casey spewed those honest words last night when Chuck found him sleepwalking in the courtyard. Chuck led him back to his bed. As Casey drifted into sleep he spoke oddly subdued, like a lost youth.

_"Go home, Cliff…Chuck…Cliff, I'm sorry! I let everybody down…that's the way I am." _

Chuck sadly left him and vowed to never to say a word.

**~Oo~**

Chuck nudged Morgan as he buckled up to drive the Nerd Herd. "Hey, you still having issues with that customer? You remember, the one who wanted to punch your lights out?"

"Yeah man, I don't know _what_ his problem was. I told him _no cash back_, only store credit. These people are maniacs, I tell ya! If he tries _anything…"_

_"Go for the nose!"_ Chuck and Casey expounded advice at the same moment and Morgan laughed.

"I was gonna say, _sue_. But I don't know if I can reach his nose anyway."

Chuck peeked in the rear view mirror and saw Casey stiffen. "Something wrong, Casey?"

Casey leered at him. "Why did you just say that?"

"Oh, it's just something I _heard._ I was one of those kids that had to learn that advice the hard way." Chuck mused.

Casey took a deep breath. Could he have been talking in his sleep? Or worse, sleepwalking? He narrowed his eyes and Chuck grinned and shrugged.

"Too bad you didn't have Casey in high school, man. You could have paid him to be your bodyguard." Morgan joked.

"It would have only cost ya a buck a day." Casey mumbled.

"What did you say?" Chuck asked, adjusting the radio. He heard him just fine. "Maybe back in eighty that would have been the going rate for bodyguards."

_"_Oh, yeah. Right. Hey, I'm gonna get a little shut eye, wake me up when we get there."

"Pleasant dreams, pal."

The trio took off, ready to face another day of irate customers, inept co-workers and whatever other adventures lay ahead at the _BUY MORE._

**The End.**


End file.
